Porta Di Sole Or The Princess In The Tower
by Kitade Death
Summary: Because birthdays happen only once a year...


Sooo... Hey hey kids! A birthday fic for Xanxus, as I promised... I first tried to write something very sad, but I kinda failed...That and also, sorry for grammatical errors...

I don't have much to say so ENJOY!

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><p>Porta di Sole<p>

You could see them everywhere, even now. This has to do nothing with caste, race, wealth or age. Men from all horizons, all past, future and present, with outfits as different as night and day would always come and go, pass by that modest – almost insignificant – door, contiguous to that big, grey and sad building in the worst part of the city. The outside, it was despicable to try to describe it: a dirty, populous street of ill repute only frequented by the pits of human society. It smelled of crime and mud. It's a wonder how people could get used to live in such abjection.

There were hiding murderers and ruffians of all sorts, charlatans, swindlers, smugglers, thugs and miserable families, lying silently in the mist, concealing their atrocious shape from God's judgment… There was buried the rachitic corpse of humanity.

And against all odds, that door would always keep its hinges open for the visitors. A noble gentleman and a wretched seaman could come in at the same time, the first sparkling with his opulent attire, golden watch and aristocratic gait, the second with his dirtied and poor clothes, cursing or singing a seaman song, but at the end of the day when they get out you wouldn't distinguish which was initially the decent one and which the filthy one – there wouldn't even be a decent man in the very first place.

Yes. To begin with, that house, just like the entire street, isn't a place where a _respectable_ person would ever lay a foot on. A dishonorable place… It's still a euphemism.

The Porta di Sole… It was written on a wooden plate above the iron door. That name would echo from the North to the South of the country. Asylum of the sick souls, rest of the wrecked hearts, oasis of the damned: so many promises she would feed her children, so many illusions she would make glisten in front of those tired eyes, too dull to make out what is real and what isn't. For what purpose is she lying, deceiving, mocking and draining the ugly monster in her bosom, chanting marvelous anthem in his ear and let him sleep at his side? Pure fantasy of humankind! You first created a God to keep you away from despair; and finally it hadn't been enough so you built that tower of depravation and concupiscence to soothe your hurt flesh. The fact of calling that place the Door of the Sun was purely ironical: it was simply the entrance of sin and vice.

That night wasn't different from the last night, nor from the next one. Again and again they would cross the gate; they would have a taste of the forbidden fruit before being sardonically thrown out of the fake Eden.

Neither the Christian Lord, nor the fiendish Foe would toss a glance to them. Ever.

But today we see an unusual face showing up at the door. Wrapped prudently under countless stratums of clothes (the weather had been inclement the last few weeks), face well hidden, not once rising his voice, the man crossed quickly the entry, his longs and nervous legs making elegant strides in a shady corridor.

The hallway was dark, so dark one couldn't see farther than their nose, and in spite of that the man walked assuredly in the dimness. He was a regular.

From where he was he couldn't clearly listen to the tumultuous music confined in the very core of the brothel. However it still could come in a deep but deaden fashion. Once the door shut close, the stranger took off his hat, revealing a well-bred face – one of those you can only encounter in the south: dark hair, tanned skin (marred by darker scars), straight nose and an expressive and sensual mouth. The man was looking straight forward. His expression was what women would call a serious but slightly cold one; and men, a haughty and contemptuous one.

So the Italian man (let's assume that this "customer" comes from that sunny and warm country), the Italian man was moving ahead. More and more he could hear the cabaret's songs resounding, cacophonous and vulgar, in his ears. Still five, three, one meter and he arrived in: the _real_ Porta di Sole, the magnificent, decadent, pernicious Porta di Sole where a scoundrel could forget for a night the gibbet waiting for him. The Porta di Sole, that place which one couldn't say if it was Heaven or Hell.

Couples were laughing, playing and loving in a gigantic salon – so big the roof's height was almost defying physics. They were sprawling on silk cushions, velvets sofas, lying on the satin sheets of comfortable bed settee, or right on the ground on Damascus carpets. The lovers (I previously said couples, but they could be groups of people too; that wasn't a shocking fact) were more or less gathered around a platform in the middle of the salon. There female dancers provocatively dressed in tulle drapes, fringes and spangle, and musicians were playing that awful music that was breaking the raven's eardrums.

But that violation of the hearing wasn't the only one, far from it.

The ceiling was immensely high, and yet everyone's lungs were atrophied: perfumes, alcohol, tobacco, and mostly an acid and cutting odor – opium's – were saturating the closed space. It was leaving a blissful air on faces, a mix of hilarity and despair – as if they would immediately kill themselves if they stopped laughing. An infect and corrupt sentiment.

The sweet company all together with the drug was making the men's brain cells melt. A newbie couldn't take it more than one hour. It was different for a regular, diametrically. The latter would simply stare idly at the colorful curtains, the priceless copies exposed on the walls, the sweaty faces of his neighbors and the incessant coming and going of the waiters, always picking up empty bottles on this table, filling this "Master's" cup, bringing champagne to another, over and over…

What more can be said about that room? Maybe that it was luxury and opulence themselves. There, even a little crook could be served like an Eastern king, drink the same wines as him, kiss women with beauty matching his… Freedom and Beauty, the two promises the Porta had to fulfill for its patrons. The inside was the total opposite of the outside. Outside that was ugliness, misery, death: Reality. Inside there was fortuna, love, life and Dreams.

Our special customer was perfectly aware of that. He didn't stop to amuse himself with the other regulars; he wasn't even looking for a place to insert himself. He had barely showed up at the colossal curtained entrance of the cabaret when a tall man in dark clothes saluted him and showed him his way to the other side of the large room. However the customer didn't wait for him to guide him and directly led the way, not once giving a sight to the never ending obsequiousness of his follower.

He strode rapidly. The sight of the drunkards and the hostesses was sickening him, their wrinkled faces hidden behind tons of make-up and lipstick, neck drenched with cheap cologne. They finally got to a back-door. The raven crossed it; the lackey followed him to a vestibule. The place was somehow similar to the first corridor, the only difference was the wall lamps lightening the stifling room, uncovering the crimson color of it. The taller man called for an elevator. The appliance soon arrived and rang lightly. The raven got in, leaving the lackey behind him; the latter just bowed reverently before the elevator went up.

The raven leaned on the wall at the back of the box. Stairs to the fifth. Not so much levels to traverse, but the lift was so old and slow it seemed it would take ages before arriving anywhere. A light irritation was starting to bud in the tanned man. He crossed his arms and starred before him. Instead of plain doors, the entry was made with iron-worked bars; they made look the shaft like a jail cell. The only compensation was the view he could get of the outside... Not first-rate: it was only showing rows and rows of rooms, each one the exact replica of the previous. Besides it was the same case of all the floors: a red carpet covering a long hall blending with the carmine walls, a chandelier hanging on the ceiling and numerated doors… From time to time someone would come in or get out from his room, accompanied or not by a flamboyant hostess in trifles and strass, clothes crumpled and reeking of tobacco.

It was a very depressing place.

A heave got to the raven's stomach. If the lift hadn't stopped at that moment, he surely would have thrown up his last dinner.

The shaft opened up. In front of the man there was an antechamber. It was a beautiful place, nothing to do with the ostentation and vulgarity of the cabaret.

The walls were veiled behind thick, dark curtains; there was absolutely no window or other exit apart from the previous door. The only furniture was constituted by a couch, an armchair and a commode on which were casually scattered luxurious trinkets: two wooden statuettes, an ivory egg of Nuremberg, a cup filled with marbles… There was also a pair of huge mirrors placed on opposite walls – placed so that the visitor would immediately catch a double reflection of his visage when he came into the boudoir.

Just like for everything else before that room, the dark haired man didn't pay heed to the details. He just paced unhurriedly in it, his eyes – did I mention they were as red and bloody as Hell's rivers? – grazing at the velvet blinds. At some point he stopped and stared at the connection of two curtains: light was breaking through it. The raven smirked calmly, his sever expression softening for a fraction of second, before violently pulling the drapes wide open.

'Voooooi!' Was the first thing he heard.

* * *

><p>He's lived a long part of his life locked up between those walls. He couldn't precisely say that they've become like a house for him: that <em>was<em> his house, that confined, crushing, and in the same time familiar space. He would not complain for that, quite the contrary.

All that clothing, that trimming, lace and angora itched his soft skin. His oh so long, silky silver hair was being pulled, too forcefully, by swift hands. They seemed to have got used with dealing with the silver mane, and yet it hurt, it hurt, it…

'Hurt! Damn it Luss, can't you be more careful?' He finally yelled at the man (more exactly a transvestite and the proprietor of the Porta) behind him.

'Mou~ Squ-chan. You should calm down!' The hair-dresser whined and pulled harder. 'Your hair really is beautiful, but you never take care of it. As a result: here! It's full of bundles.'

The previously named Squ-chan glared at the body-sized glass in front of him. Beautiful, Luss said? Can a man take it as a compliment, and even more when the compliment was directed to his hair? They already succeeded in dressing him like a princess in a fancy-dress ball – with ample drapes of precious cloth sparkling and glistening at the first move, large enough not to distinguish if the person inside was a man or a woman, and still, at some place, tight enough to put under anyone's nose the sensual arc of the waist and perfect curves of legs and neck. Did he, Superbi Squalo, have to endure the humiliation of a little more emasculation?

'Okay… Wait, wait. And… It's… Over!' Luss beamed with joy whilst showing his chef-d'oeuvre to the silver haired man: mainly, it only consisted into something between a bun and a ponytail. More specks were seen on it. Squalo frowned.

'Voi! It looks like shit!' The silverette yelled and got up. 'I'm not going anywhere with this… Don't come near me!' He added when the drag queen tried to pat him.

'Squ-chan is soooo mean~ When people are trying to help you~. You're gorgeous but your bad personality ruins everything! Haa… I even wonder sometimes if your hair is like this because it's a natural color, or because of stress.'

Superbi Squalo glared at Lussuria. Although the latter was wearing sunglasses his emotions could be effortlessly seen; the transvestite was indeed a very easy-to-read person. However the long haired man, while being that prideful man, did feel a sting of guilt when he sensed the genuine sadness in his employer's (they called him their "_mama_") "eyes". Just how many years had the silver head seen that succession of maternal love, disappointment, delight, patience and perseverance on that man's face? All his life, it seemed.

Squalo sighed with resignation.

'Oh fuck it. I'll go with that.' He muttered.

'Ushishishi. Squalo looks like a woman.'

'Umu. It's not as if he has never.'

Two kids appeared next to the silverette: a blond boy in his teenage years carrying a baby with a huge black hood in his arms.

'Shut up, you stupid brats!' Squalo shouted. 'I'm fed up with you two. Just go play in the street and get hit by a car!'

'Squ-chan, you shouldn't frown too much. You'll get early wrinkles.'

'Yeaaah. With your hair, you'll look like an old granny.' The boy grinned.

'This is not the point.' The baby pulled out a long list and started reading it. 'Your clothes cost too much. We'll have to fix a new budget for the next six months and allocate more funds…'

Squalo didn't wait for them to silence. He just got out, all fuming and muttering curses, and entered in another room. It was an utterly strange one, a room that gave the impression of entering another dimension.

There was gold and silver everywhere. A soft and bubbling sound of water was whispering quietly: five fountains were dotting the vast space, the shimmering water pouring in some kind of artificial streams. A sweet whiff of incense was lingering in the air, mixed with the floral aroma of exotic plants. It was comparable to a Garden of Delights. Squalo was bare feet, so he could clearly feel the coolness of the tiled ground, though the warmth in the room was perfect. His greyish eyes, already used with all that sumptuousness, were indifferent before the small but charming bridge he was crossing, the presence of white birds fluttering above his head, that light ringing which he never knew where it was coming from,…

Not once in his life did he wonder how they thrived to build all of that in a brothel, and to be more precise, in a district where crime rate was the highest in the country. The silverette could care less about that.

The only thing he was aware about – and the only thing that was worth being known by him – was the fact that that garden had been built for only one person's pleasure. He was the richest, and yet the worst man Squalo had ever met in his life, always acting bossy and controlling,…

'…Never, for God's sake, asking for people's opinion, a bastard, a real pain in the ass…'

A man that had been coming every year, at the same period, spending only one night amidst that hovel's populace, and then leaving the morning _as if in a dream_…

'A good for nothing, spoiled brat that turned to be the nastiest in his kind. Why do I ever bother…'

Why? Maybe because of the illusion that man was giving him. He was undeniably an irremediable jerk, but Squalo couldn't help it. Thinking about that, he could see him again when he first arrived in that brothel. Back then he was just a fourteen year old teenager sold by travelling slave dealers. He was enraged, wild, untamed, with shorter hair, and seriously bad shaped. Many years of ill-treatment, both from his previous family and the dealers, left quite ugly scars on his body and, surely the less esthetical detail, a void instead of a left hand. The void was replaced by a mechanical hand (having a crippled servant wouldn't have been very convenient for the shop). But it precisely was during the period of adaptation with the new device that the tragedy occurred.

Let's say that the silverette didn't accept easily to work for a brothel: his pride would never allow him that. And on the other hand he wasn't shameless enough to accept being lodged and fed for free. So, Squalo was pacing hurriedly in the cabaret between groups of drunken people, bringing pints of beer for this one and bottles of wine for this one, when he accidently spilled wine on one of the customers. The man (no… he was a teenager like him, maybe a bit older, just) had a wicked face: the perfect image of the spoiled rich master. It was the first time he saw that boy, and back then he really hoped it would be the last.

"Shitty scum" The boy said. "Look what you've done."

He showed a stain on his shirt. Squalo only stared at him, a bored expression on his young features. "So what, you stupid? It'll be dry in five minutes."

"Huuh?" The young master got up, his red eyes darkening in the process. "What did you say, trash?"

"You're deaf, too? I said-"

"Uh-oh! No fighting, guys!" One of the men accompanying the red eyed boy stood up to part the kids. "We're not here for that! Sorry, boy (he's talking to Squalo), we'll pay for that. Ya know, today is our Boss' son's (now he's talking about the other dude) birthday. He's sixteen. Great, huh? I, Stefano Beppe, specially insisted to take him here…" He comes nearer to the silverette and murmurs playfully at his ear. "Tonight, he's going to… Lose "it", heh? You work here, don't you, so can't you show us some good, nice…"

"Voooi, stop sputtering your shit in my ear, you ugly fart! Like hell would I care about that goddamn brat getting laid or whatever! Just get out of my way, I'm tired of listening to you…"

If the young Squalo had pay attention to the "brat" he was bad-mouthing instead of yelling on that underling, perhaps he would have quieted down.

He hadn't.

The silverette ended seriously beaten up, insulted and put in funny clothes. That swollen and still proud face blushing in embarrassment made the other teenage boy fall down laughing: for him, that was the best birthday present he could get.

Hence it has resulted in Squalo entertaining the "Boss' son", who showed himself being the inheritor of a powerful Mafia family, every time he would come downtown. That oversize garden was only a part of the Mafioso's amusement, a little whim he allowed himself.

And tonight is Xanxus' 30 years old celebration.

'Voooooi… What the fuck is that bastard doing? Does he hope for me to wait for him until tomorrow? Fucking asshole is certainly getting drunk somewhere and… Ouch!'

Said asshole had Squalo's hair yanked hard, thus the sharp cry of pain. The silver haired man hadn't noticed him coming in, the sound of his boots muffled by the carpet where he was lying.

'Lazy trash.' Xanxus glowered.

'Voi, it hurt, you damn Boss! Why didn't you just say you were here?'

Squalo finally released himself from the tanned man's grip and looked angrily at the intruder. The raven was as usual on his best clothes. His dark, spiky hair brought back, Squalo could observe those crimson orbs staring at him. They had their usual wrath in them, tinged with a bit of boredom and irony. That was exactly Xanxus. Even seeing him once a year could teach the silverette this fact. However the latter didn't like how the tanned man was looking at him from above. He stood up as well.

'I see one year passed but you're still a dick. At least do something about that creepy habit you have of always coming quietly…'

'Fat bitch. Can't you shut up? I'm tired and your voice's giving me a headache.'

'Voo… Che. Anyway.' Squalo took on himself, smoothed out his garments and started to walk toward the garden's entrance. 'You're going to annoy me all night long. We might as well start quickly and finish early. Go take a fucking bath. I'll wait for you in the…'

'What?' Xanxus interrupted him. 'Do you expect me to take a bath by myself?'

Irritation came back in the long haired man's brain.

'Vooi… Yes, I do.'

Xanxus grimaced, but didn't move an inch. Instead he slumped on the carpet. He actually wasn't going to go anywhere! 'Hey, Bossman… You're fucking thirty now. You're old enough to take your fucking bath alone.'

'Say it once more.'

'What?'

'What you've just said.'

'What? That you're old?'

'Shitty piece of trash.'

'Okay. You're thirty?'

'And what are you supposed to say?'

Squalo frowned. They weren't kids anymore. What's the point of saying it anymore? But he sensed that the raven wouldn't let go if he didn't say it…

He put his arms around the dark haired man's neck and kissed him lightly.

'Che. Happy birthday, you damn bastard.'

* * *

><p>The Garden wasn't the only singularity in the Porta's last floor. I said it earlier: it had been specially built on Xanxus' caprice, and that man was incredibly capricious. And wealthy (the large size of the building was helping, too). The entire floor had been fit out to look like a normal house. Technically there had been a garden, so now let's move to the bathroom. I agree it isn't a common guided tour.<p>

Xanxus was dabbling lazily in the bath tub. It was full to the brim, and so water was overflowing everywhere on the floor.

'Voooi Xanxus! Stop moving, damn it, I'm all wet now!' Squalo vociferate from behind. The raven looked back and smirked at the miserable form trying to get up from the soaked ground. Squalo had just slipped on soap.

'You can say sexy things when you want.'

'Shut it! And don't move. I'm fucking mopping you.'

Xanxus burst in laughs. Squalo ground his teeth, but settled on kneeling down and wiping the raven's well-built back, from the base of his nape to his broad shoulders. His hair was wet from the previous fall; the silverette always had to wipe a silvery lock behind his ear. In spite of that small trouble, Squalo couldn't help staring at the bronzed skin gleaming with water and lotion. Xanxus' musculature was firm under the man's hands, but tense and nervous. He started applying light pressures on the shoulders, slowly heading to scarred arms. At some point he had to lean down, the distance between the two males shortened… Squalo's face was two inches from that glorious skin. He could already smell the sweet scent of the bath, blended with Xanxus' musk.

Just thinking that the taller man was naked, right in front of him… Slowly but surely his cheeks were warming up, his ears reddening, and his heart was pounding faster. There was something trotting in the silver head's mind. Maybe it had been too long since they last met like this, Squalo pondered. If that wasn't for that, he would never have thought about such weird and lewd things as…

Oh Damn it. He licked at the raven's nape.

'Scum… What are you doing?'

'Voi… shut up…'

Squalo's lips moved higher on Xanxus' neck. Now he was also nibbling and sucking at him at some places. His hands grabbed the tub's edge to sustain his weight; his face dived in the tanned throat. He found it difficult to control his breath, and his back was instinctively arching as his tongue went higher.

When he finally reached to the dark haired man's ear, the latter slightly frowned. He pulled hard on the silver mane.

'Stop that, you scumbag.'

'Ah? What's wrong?' Squalo sneered. 'Did that feel good? That's what you've come for, so just take it like a man and…V-'

He couldn't finish his sentence. It's quite hard to talk when your head is deep down in the water, with the foam stinging your eyes. Even the second after you emerge you still have to choke the soapy water from your throat. But stuff like that would never discourage the silverette from ranting louder and louder and louder.

'Voooi you fucking bastard!' He almost broke his vocal cords while rubbing his teary eyes and trying to reach the rim of the bath tub. He failed lamentably and on top of that slipped again in the warm water. '_Cough cough_. Do you want to drown me? Fuck it, ya _Cough_ asshole. _Cough_. You're just a damn shithead, a lousy _cough_ Mafioso… Shit!'

Half of the water had already poured out. Squalo's clothes were sticking meanly on him.

'You reap what you sow. Now come here…'

'Get lost, fucktard! I have to dry myself and get a change of clothes and… Voi! Get off!'

Xanxus took a strong grip on the smaller man's slim hips, forcing him to sit on his lap. Long silver wisps were floating around them, making a shiny halo on the bath's water. After wiping strands off of the drenched face, the raven forcefully captured beautiful swollen lips, claiming for the sweet and moist cavern. Squalo's tongue was tangled and curled with the raven's. He brought his hands on those seductive shoulders and leaned down to deepen the kiss.

'Mm… Xan-… An…'

Tanned and callous hands were stroking the soft features of the man on top. It was strange to hold that bigheaded person. Xanxus was fairly sure the guy was actually angry only ten seconds earlier. Well, it wasn't bad either. As far as what he knew about the silverette, he wasn't even the kind of man to let himself being affectionately embraced or hugged. But when they were like this, together, all his guard, his dear pride, impertinence and self-conscience were down. His eyes were an odd combination of carelessness, candor and want; to the raven's delight. He didn't have to live with him to understand how bad he was with human relationship (not as bad as him, God forbid). Squalo was, what, 28? But up till now he's never seen anything change in his character. He was the same stupid and annoying brat he'd always been. Staying with him for more than one hour was barely bearable if he wasn't drunk, having to put up with his incessant swearing and shouts… Sometimes Xanxus asked himself how the people in the Porta kept an appearance of sanity when they had to bear that idiot's character 24/7. But instead of dissuading him he found some kind of interest in living with that pigheaded.

Though he wasn't going to ask the man that, and he knew neither would Squalo.

Xanxus' touch went to the bony chest. It was heaving up and down fast, as if the heart beneath the smooth skin was trying to leap through it. The soaked garments were no longer needed, they were an annoyance to the red eyed man, more than anything. He ripped them open, revealing two protruding nipples.

'Hey, scum. Have you been waiting for me?' Xanxus said while rubbing at the pinky buds. 'You're more eager than usual.'

'Don't… get cocky… Ngh! I was just… bored…!'

The raven left the rosy tips to fondle on the thighs circling his waist. Slowly, agonizingly slowly. The younger man would have like him to pay more attention to his building arousal. It was starting to ache painfully.

'Xanxus…I'm about to…'

'Yeah. I know.'

On his side, Xanxus had some trouble hiding his bulge too – even with his eternal placid face, it hadn't been poking on the smaller man's erection for some time. He pulled the silverette closer and started grinding their hips together. Squalo was in bliss. He couldn't focus on anything but the maddening ecstasy his lower-self was relishing. His hips were moving in unison with Xanxus', his hands since long trapping both arousals between them, and squeezing them off. With his support on the raven lost, he rested his forehead on the tanned man's shoulders, a moaning form time to time escaping from his lips.

'Mm… An…Ah!... Ngh… I'm coming… Coming…!'

Both males stopped moving, both feeling a strange but familiar tension in their stomach. Seconds after, they convulsed against each other, releasing a white and thick liquid in the tub. Sweat was mixing with drop of water on their body. Squalo remained still on Xanxus' lap, breath heavy and mouth dry for maybe two minutes, before the raven pushed him down.

'Quit on lying here like a lazy whale. I'm hungry. Where's the dinner?'

'V…Ooooi! Fuck you, damn bastard!' Squalo cursed and got out of the tub and the bathroom, leaving big puddles of water on his way. The Boss still could clearly listen to his voice coming from outside. 'Don't treat me like a fucking servant! I'm damn tired of your childishness. If you want to eat then first get out from that fucking bathroom. Just who do you think I am? One of your stupid whores? Raaaaah!'

However ten minutes later, the dinner was served and it had been a real feast, like every year the scarred man was visiting the Porta.

* * *

><p>They had a deal. Once a year, and no one would ask for more. Xanxus was fulfilling a youth fancy, and the silverette was… Well… He didn't really know why he was doing that, nor could he explain why he let the raven have his way with him so easily. It was already a wonder how he managed to stay in a brothel for almost fifteen years. That was humiliating, degrading and infamous, but not once he thought about leaving that place. It wasn't a question of general ambiance, of acquaintances he had made or the good treatment he was receiving. That's true. After all, he didn't delude himself: wherever he went, he wouldn't be more than a brat sold to a cabaret.<p>

That didn't matter. He could have got worse.

The first meeting, it was fourteen years earlier. Back then Xanxus and he were just two lost boys. They didn't have a lot of things to do, friends to see, or family to care for, they were brutal and reckless: technically they were meant for each other. Technically, and without taking into account their personal disorders.

In spite of this Squalo was having fun with the Mafia boss. That only one day in the year, the silver head would never admit it, but he was waiting for with impatience. They may be fighting and arguing every time they met, nonetheless they kept on meeting again and again. When almost the entire year he was nearly losing his reason, locked in that place of depravation, swarming with drunkards' songs, their fatty voices howling vulgarly night after night after night, the smell of alcohol and greasy food reeking from the kitchen, the feeling of being constantly surrounded by the worst human beings, in the most horrible place possible in the world.

Squalo could put up with that. So he did throughout the years.

One night in a year.

One night in a year he could let himself cherish the fantasy of being loved and treasured by a man whose life during the rest of the year was absolutely unknown to him. Squalo quite understood he wasn't the raven's unique bed partner, though Xanxus would certainly torch him live if he let himself put someone else in his bed.

Being with that ruthless Mafioso was an alien emotion, weird and barbarian, destroying what was left of his reason and putting him in a new state of madness he'd never known before. Xanxus' grip was stiff and cruel on his arm, pitiless on his thighs and tender on his waist. He'd cast away pride and life for only one whisper in his ear, a light kiss on his skin or – good heavens! – one more night with the raven.

What happened for him to become that addicted? He isn't the kind of man to seek for comfort or attention, he'll never stand under a window singing serenades to a lover or doodle their name in a book for hours… He wasn't that sort of loveholic. Did he love Xanxus? That only thought made him laugh, giggle and snicker, and maybe all the verbs related to an animal's cry. He _wasn't_ in love with him! Love wasn't something allowed for his kind. Maybe in an alternate universe, one with cherubs fluttering in a rosy sky and flowers blossoming in his way, maybe in that world he would have said that.

Love, huh? A woman would surely love him. Nevertheless you need to love men very much, and even more with a man like Xanxus. Loving him very, very, very much to love him. Without that, it wouldn't be possible to suffer his bad temper.

'But I guess I already got accustomed to his never ending abuse.' Squalo pondered sometimes, but then he forgot.

Even for meals. Tonight's dinner had been, just like every year, a genuine failure. Elaborate foods were thrown away: on the ground, on the ceiling, on the walls and on a fuming face. Plates and glasses were broken, napkins torn and dirtied, and an angry long haired man brought on the table and kissed fervently. Clothes newly put on were ripped open, the man in them screaming and writhing with pleasure under the scarred man's experienced hands, until he exploded hard in a callous hand.

Squalo was trying desperately to catch his breath, chest glistening with sweat and buds of semen, when Xanxus dragged him to the bedroom and aggressively threw in on the silverette's bed.

'Voi, Xanxus…' Squalo whined as he saw the raven unbuttoning his shirt.

'Shut up, bitch, and get on all fours.' He smirked nastily.

Panting deeply, Squalo consented silently and kneeled on the mattress, back facing the raven and ass up in the air. Xanxus sat next to him. 'How do you expect me to do anything like this? Fucking open it wide.'

The long haired man frowned. His eagerness was already showing all over his face, but in his brain paralyzed with yearn he somehow managed to work out that thrashing now wasn't a good idea at all. Finally he brought slowly his hands to two shivering cheeks and spread them open.

'Good boy.'

Xanxus bent down and started licking the little hole. It was twitching under the raven's thick tongue; Squalo's soft butt squirming, his back arching lecherously. It felt so good, being opened so gently, having the moist appendage stretching soothingly the ring of muscles and wetting him slowly from the inside. The silverette bit in his pillow to muffle the outrageous sounds from his mouth, which didn't please the raven. Leaving the trembling hot, wet sheath, the latter grabbed at a fistful of hair and yanked at it. The man beneath whimpered, Xanxus was pretty sure it wasn't because of the pain.

'Hey, trash. Don't you want me to put it in?' Xanxus murmured in Squalo's ear. The hot air form his mouth made him quiver.

'Ah… Yes…!'

The silver haired man jolted when two long fingers made their way in him. They began coming in and out, at first slowly, but then faster. Squalo's hips were rocking simultaneously.

'And what do you want me to do next?' The raven's voice was huskier and more… sensual. 'Um? Fuck you senseless?'

'Yes… Aan! Yes… Xanxus, please! Ah!'

Xanxus could put a cool face any longer, his own arousal aching in pants. Soon the fingers were replaced by a much bigger organ, and this time Squalo was sure it wasn't a tongue. The bottom man shifted to facilitate the raven's penetration, and that was a piece of work: the swollen flesh was about to tear his insides. He could feel the tight walls trapping the hard member, squeezing it, pushing it out…

'Fucking scumbag… Ku… Stop pushing back and relax your damn ass!'

It's been a year after all.

The silverette took a deep breath and did so. If his wits could have processed anything at the moment, he probably would have cursed the man who was so damn taunting and humiliating. Good thing for his self-esteem, they couldn't.

He sharpened the angle of his back, so that Xanxus could go all the way in. Each centimeter inserted felt like a stab. Nevertheless he barely engorged the wet tunnel when he started to move. Squalo clenched and shuddered but still came off bucking and arching and colliding in perfect rhythm.

His insides were incredible, Xanxus silently swore when he drove in. Not being touched for the entire year made the silverette's rosy hole amazingly tight, his sphincter almost allowing no entry to the raven's enormous penis. But once in, damn! It felt great, the hotness and the dampness of it giving an extra rapture.

'Xan-… Xanxus!... Ah! An~ Feels so… good! Ngh!' The man on bottom screamed. 'More! More… Do it… Gah!'

Xanxus spread Squalo's thighs wider and dig his fingernails deep in the flesh. It was warm, contrary to the cold butt cheeks. Wait… That was bad! He needed to concentrate, he needed not to give in to the pleasurable pressure on his member. He began hitting at different angles, in the same time trailing his hands on the silverette's inner thighs, on his back, his chest, his hair… That's right. That hellish hair, always where it can infuriate you, sticking to both men's sweaty skin, the silky texture of it caressing tenderly the scarred skin of the Mafioso, as if they were the replacement for any fondle and hug the silver head was to ashamed to give.

In the bedroom there were only two small windows showing the outside. Everything was dark in it; the only light was coming from the moon, up in the October's gloomy sky. It was diffusing a blue-grey taint in the room. Although the openings were tiny compared to the size of the room, the light was actually spreading widely on the ground and lightening half of the bed. Under the moonlight Squalo's mane was glistening even more; it was luring the dark haired man. With every jerk induced by a hard thrust, a silvery wave could be seen on Squalo's back, followed by little smaller, on the mattress where were scattering the silverette's attractive strands.

Turned on more that what's allowed, Xanxus' mouth sucked one after the other the swan neck, the nook at the base of the silver haired man's back, leaving hickeys on his trail.

'Mmh… Ha…' Squalo moaned quietly, his eyelids shut close and a trail of drool escaping from his mouth.

Next bloody eyes went to the connection of their body, there, lower. Xanxus noticed with delight that his moves were much more fluid than in the first minutes. His abs were hitting against the slim and fresh ass, the red and thick appendage connected to it going in and out of the relaxed entrance quite fast, already wet from his own precum. Soon their movements became more erratic, keener and hastier. The raven bit on the younger man's shoulder. That was too much for Squalo. He came with a loud cry. His release's violence propagated to his rear, making it shiver and squeeze the craving shaft. The raven almost immediately followed his lover in bliss.

They were now breathing heavily, the raven crushing the smaller man under his weight. Squalo didn't feel well, lying so carelessly, but he was too tired to push the other male. The latter would thank him for that later.

Ah, but now the tanned man thought, that position was bad… He liked to see the flushed face of the long haired man after orgasm. That was definitely the cutest face he's ever made.

Like this he could see nothing. He turned him over: indeed his expectations were answered. Maybe in a state of total intoxication he would admit that the silverette was beautiful, but right now his features were only metamorphosed by tiredness and lust. Farewell the ugly frown on his forehead, his cheeks were slightly pink, his greyish orbs teary and his temples covered with sweat and his lips damp with saliva. Lower was spreading a slender body, stomach still convulsing vaguely from the sex's aftermath. He glanced at the man's manhood. It was drenched in cum and slowly shrinking on narrow hips. Squalo's legs still were spread on the sheets; the raven's white secretion was staining their pinkish color. It had been enough to turn him on again.

'Che. Old perv' ' Squalo muttered.

That was the only sentence his mind could work out. Anyway, what was he supposed to say? The smaller man looked outside: it still was night but the sun would soon rise in a feathery sky, and everything would be over. Everything always ends up at the very last.

In his lifetime, Squalo had witnessed a total of fourteen nights and fourteen sunrises. The others were just pallid, heart-breaking facsimiles that weren't worth talking about.

Yes, he would think about that sometimes, like this night when Xanxus was one more time impaling him. How would be life outside, with Xanxus? Would it be better than now? Would he get used to it, so much that if one day the Mafioso suddenly decided he didn't need him anymore, Squalo would jump from the top of a bridge?

Pure rubbish. Shameful thoughts, when all he should be focusing on was that hardness rummaging his ass for the nth time…

How many times did he come till morning? He stopped counting since long. At last the raven and the silverettes's body were so tired they fell asleep against each other.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I wake up in the morning with dread; I should shed bitter tears when I see this morning which, in its race, won't accomplish any of my wishes. Any! That day which, with inner torments, will upset even the presentiment of pleasure, and which, under thousand contrarieties, will paralyze my troubled heart's inspirations. I also have, at nightfall, to lie down with a convulsive movement on that bed where no rest will soothe me, where awful dreams will frighten me. The God who lies in my chest can move profoundly all of me; but he, who leads all my strength, can't disturb anything around me…<em>**

…

Daybreak was merciless. The birds' singing, the refreshing wind on houses' roof, the silence reigning in the streets, if ignoring the early cries of shopkeepers… They resounded like a saw in Squalo's ears.

His sleepy eyes cracked open. The first sight he was given was the ethereal sky, tinted by an aerial blue mixed with pink clouds. One of the windows was open, and from it was entering a cold draught which made the silverette thrill. He stretched in a feline way and sat up in the bed. Xanxus was already up and putting on his clothes again. Squalo was used to see the dark scars mar the gorgeous skin, the solid muscles of his back stiffening and unstiffening at each movement of his arms. The raven's clothes were already perfectly ironed, the mess in his hair was the only proof of the wild night they'd spent together.

'You're already leaving?' Squalo asked.

'Aa.' Xanxus answered without looking at him, his attention converged on his reflection in the glass while knotting his tie.

'Oh…'

They remained quiet for some time, the tanned Mafioso finishing dressing up, the other watching attentively at him from the bed. More exactly, Squalo wasn't just _watching_, he was _staring_ at him: the black and spiky hair, the perfect bridge of his nose, the powerfully built torso, the long and manly legs… He wanted to discover every change on that god-like body since the last time he saw it. It was like back then, years earlier, when he first saw those scars. He knew they weren't as serious as how they seemed… And yet that's frustrating.

'So… I'll see you next time…' Squalo muttered. He couldn't bring himself to say "next year". Actually, he absolutely didn't know what to talk about; it wasn't his type at all. 'Then… Take care...'

'It sounds creepy from you, trash. Keep that for the others.'

Xanxus lit a cigarette and headed to the door. He had already made one step outside but paused suddenly, as if he wasn't aware of what he was doing actually. He almost turned back to look at the long haired man,

'By the way' The latter suddenly stated with a blank voice. 'Congratulation for your wedding. It happened last month, right? I heard she's a nice woman…'

A shorter but heavier silence felt between the two, soon broken by the raven with another unconcerned "Aa". He then got out and slammed the door close.

The dry, grey orbs finally left the wooden door to look idly at the rising morning outside. That day seemed to be a nice day for everyone, even in that rat hole. Squalo sighed.

'Another motherfucking day again.' The silverette reached for a pack of cigarettes in his bed head. Putting a stick between his thin lips, he lit the end of it.

He really didn't want to think about anything. He'd just put up with all of that crap, trapped probably forever in that pale imitation of Heaven. One day after another, patiently waiting for the next year's meeting and that destroying embrace, again, like a beakful of poison slowly scratching and scorching his throat, but never killing him.

But that scald was precisely what strengthened his hope, as wiping out the illusions he'd totally assimilated would have simply demolished him. That pain was assurance for him that he'd be comforted, one day or another.

So he kept on waiting. Waiting and waiting. Just like a princess who had found her prince, but in the end she's just looking at him from her tower.

* * *

><p>So this is it... Sorry if it disappointed you. I really wanted to write some good angst...<p>

Review please!


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